


Provider

by fullmoonhermit



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies), Mad Max: Fury Road
Genre: Biting, Dom/sub Undertones, F/M, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Service Top
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-01
Updated: 2015-06-01
Packaged: 2018-04-02 08:06:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4052659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fullmoonhermit/pseuds/fullmoonhermit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She makes him try. Gives him a reason to want, a reason to have a name.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Provider

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fill for a prompt on the Mad Max kink meme. If you enjoy the fic, whether it's the day after I posted or five years later, I would love to hear from you. Comments are the absolute best. In other news, I still hate coming up with titles.

It's just another thing he can give.

He's gotten used to it, the giving. "You're a provider," Toast once told him, quirked little smile too old on her soft face. 

"Is that different from a universal donor?" he'd asked, surprising himself.

Turns out it is.

He's learning. Using his hands and his body for her, making himself be present inside, resisting the voices that try to chase him out of his head. If he's not there, all of him, then she's alone. So even though it hurts, roots breaking through cracks in dry earth, he stays. She makes him try. Gives him a reason to want, a reason to have a name.

"Max," she says, though it burns every time, "go around back and hitch up the pod."

Today, the sun beats down on Imperator Furiosa (The Great Warrior of the Rebellion, Holy Mother to the Lost Boys, Sacred Sister of the Vuvalini, and "who knows what other idiotic titles they'll give me tomorrow") as they set out to trade green for black. It's a journey she makes in secret, because no one expects the strong and benevolent leader of the Citadel to run guzzoline errands.

This is not the only thing Furiosa does that the leader of the Citadel ought not to do. They ride for refueling, but for other things too.

"You're driving," she tells him, so he drives.

She tries to explain it to him sometimes. Why she needs what she needs. A release, she says. A fight she can lose without consequences. A rock to lean against.

It doesn't matter to him, all these words. It makes her feel good, a physical comfort he can freely give. It doesn't need explaining.

The trade goes well enough, most of the locals having learned by now not to swindle or threaten Furiosa and her ilk. They make camp off the roadside, sitting in the shadow of the War Rig on a thin blanket salvaged from a wreck.

He stares up at the bright moon, waiting for her to detach her arm and settle beside him.

Max remembers watching a ragged dog carry its pup by the scruff of its neck (this was in the time before the creatures were slaughtered for food, so he must have been very young). He'd been captivated by the sight, the wriggling animal suddenly going slack and dozy in its mother's mouth. Such a vulnerable thing to trust so easily. He'd wondered if she would eat it, thin and desperate as she must have been, but she'd only carried it to her hollow in the rock and licked it clean until it slept.

He doesn't know why he kept that memory when so many others are long gone.

Finally, Furiosa lies down, silent, and curls her legs up against her stomach. Her back is to him, and even now he knows she has to force herself to allow that. He doesn't torment her by making her wait, reclining and moving up close until he can feel the heat from her body. He presses his lips to the fuzz of her hair and breathes for a few seconds.

Then he reaches over her, pulling her against him. He doesn't go slow or gentle, but he's not fast either. Furiosa wants deliberate, steady. Nothing that says _fuck_ or _fight._

She's stiff, muscles clenching as she battles her instincts, but he waits her out, keeps hold. His hands feel so broken and ugly to him. It's a challenge to let himself touch her. This too, she had to teach him. Not to be spooked by her initial fear. To trust that he's not harming her and grab her without hesitation. 

He shifts, moving one hand to cup her tender belly and clasping the other around the nub of her arm, red and sore from the metal. She lashes out, giving him a hard elbow to the chest and kicking at his ankles. It's nothing like the first fight they'd had, chains and guns and true anger. Just the last spasms of a flight reaction not even she can control.

He wraps his legs around hers, heavy and tight. Gets an arm around her neck and pulls. The sounds of her breathing cut off.

"Alright," he whispers into her scalp, "alright. It's enough."

She's shuddering, making him ache. He holds her tighter, as much to quiet himself as to quiet her. Screams the voices back internally. Waits.

Slowly, she goes slack, letting her head fall back against his shoulder.

"That's right. It's done now."

"Max," she pleads, a brand on his skin.

"I know," he murmurs, keeping up the grip until her tension bleeds out, second by torturous second, " _shhh_."

Slowly, he lets her out of the headlock, takes her arms and crosses them in front of her body, holding her there as she pants. He nuzzles up under her ear, presses his nose close and inhales deeply. Oil and the familiar human smell of her sweat. 

Humming, he closes his eyes, then bites down hard on the back of her neck. She moans from deep in her throat as his teeth dig in, pressing harder until she's gasping and whimpering. They're sounds of relief. The whine of steam when you unscrew a valve cap.

He lets go of the bite, picks another spot on her shoulder, her spine, underneath her chin. She's writhing, fingers reaching out, boots twisting in the blanket and the sand.

He lifts up to turn her over, then lets all of his weight push her down. This is the only time she ever feels fragile to him, her bones small but miraculously sturdy beneath his own, her eyes full of anger and fright ("Not of you, Max." "Then who?") and desperate need. 

He wants to do this in the gardens. Press her into the new, wet earth like a seed under his thumb until she's surrounded and safe. He cups her face and rubs his lips across her wind-blown skin, kisses her temple, her nose, her cheek. He conjures up calm from somewhere inside him and meets her eyes. 

Precious. Another word Toast gave him. ("It means cherished.") 

He lifts her head up into his shoulder, lets her hang onto him, grasping. They fall onto their sides, coiled around one another.

"You're a sweet one," he tells her, and her laugh is shaky but real. 

They stay like this for some time, until the winds pick up and he has to unclasp himself from her to pull the blanket over their heads. In their cocoon, he holds her, hitching her up on top of him and rubbing her back and shoulders. He thinks of the starving dog, surviving to care for her pup. 

He gives.


End file.
